


Aftermath

by grav_ity



Series: grav_ity plays dragon age origins [5]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 10:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17599733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grav_ity/pseuds/grav_ity
Summary: After the Landsmeet, Kentha has had it with words. And also pretty much everything else. (Spoilers: Landsmeet, Achievement Unlocked: First Knight)





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY HERE'S THE THING. At the Landsmeet, I got Alistair to be king, but he was super reluctant about everything, so I decided to give him a choice about, you know, marrying me, since I had already put enough pressure on him. AND THEN HE IMMEDIATELY BROKE UP WITH ME (I AM A COUSLAND FCOL). And it was for reasons Noble and Right, so I swallowed my feelings and told him he was going to be a good king, and then I took Leliana and Wynne and my dog, and we kicked the crap out of some bann's soldiers and stole something I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER for Slim Couldry and then I saved the game and cried myself to sleep. I didn't play for four days, and I am STILL deeply upset every time I hear his voice.
> 
> But I wrote some great fanfic, I think. :)

There was no talk as they set up camp. There was the familiarity of the work, a few nights in a nice house in Denerim couldn’t undo the habits of weeks on the road, but there was no conversation. Wynne didn’t say anything about being downwind from Oghren. Leliana didn’t pretend to measure the distance between Morrigan’s tent and everyone else’s and declare that she was creeping closer in spite of herself. There was only the task of it. At least none of them looked at her with pity in their eyes.

Only the hound was a relief, and even he seemed to sense that something was wrong. He licked her face and couldn’t tell her if he tasted salt there. Kentha sat on the ground with him in her arms while the others finished setting up for the night, and the silence of his company was a blessing.

Robbing the Bann hadn’t helped as much as she hoped it would. She had restored a holy relic and done quite a bit of violence and property damage in the process, but it hadn’t made her feel any better. She felt empty. This was a different sort of grief than when her parents had died or when Duncan had been killed. She hated it. She hated herself for making him matter so much. She hated _him_.

Of course she didn’t.

She looked over her shoulder and saw that the others had finished their tasks and had ranged themselves out in the little clearing the way they usually did. Kentha had to face at least one of them sooner or later, and if she took it upon herself, she would get to pick. The alternative was waiting until one of them came over, and she wanted to control as much of the rest of the night as she possibly could. She scratched the hound’s ears one more time, and got to her feet.

Alistair was gone, as was the shovel. No one liked setting up the privy, and even though Alistair did it the most, he always had some comment about it. Kentha was unsurprised by both his silence and his commitment: his sense of justice was a large part of what she had made him King. She went to her packs and got out the cloth wrapped package she had salvaged for him from the warehouse in Denerim. She had intended it to be a more direct gift, but he had made that impossible for both of them. She settled for placing it on the ground where he usually sat, sure he would find it when he came back, and then walked around the fire until she stood in front of Zevran.

“Grey Warden.” His tone was guarded, but no more so than usual. Always, he waited to see what she asked of him before committing himself to the part. Some might read that as untrustworthiness, but she had his measure well enough to know it was how he showed both his utility and his loyalty.

“Can you make me forget?” she asked. Her voice was low and wooden.

“Alas, I cannot.” He softened, taking one of her hands and kissing it. He ignored the line of some guard’s blood along her knuckles. “But I can perhaps give you a sleep free of the dreams that would otherwise torment you.”

She considered it only briefly, and then she nodded. Zevran took her other hand, and, leading her like he might lead a child, he pulled her into his tent.

++

Alistair put the shovel down and fought back the wave of helpless rage and following self-pity that surged through him as he watched Kentha go into Zevran’s tent. He had no right to those feelings, not after what he had done. He wanted nothing more than to comfort her, but he knew he could not soothe the hurt that he had caused, not this time.

He noticed a package sitting in his usual place by the fire, and went to unwrap it. When he held Duncan’s shield before him, he bowed his head in shame. Of course she had remembered. Of course she had done who knows what to find it for him, one piece of his mentor in an entire world of things. Of course he had been an ass, and would never be able to thank her properly for it.

He sat down and took a vial of oil and a rag out of his pack. The shield was a little worse for wear—he’d guess from the rust she’d found it underground—and there was no excuse for him not to take proper care of it, now that it was his.

“You did the right thing.” Sten’s voice broke his concentration, and Alistair did his best not to flinch too visibly. He picked this side of the fire because he’d assumed Sten was the least likely of all of them to talk to him.

“What?” he said.

“You did the right thing in becoming King,” Sten elaborated. “It is in your blood, and you have followed it. That is good.”

“There’s servant in my blood, too,” Alistair said. “Should I not follow that instead?”

“What does a king do if not serve?” Sten asked rhetorically. “Today you had choose between your service and yourself, and you chose service. That is no small thing.”

Alistair had never sought Sten’s approval for anything, but somehow winning it made him feel a little bit better.

“I hope it is the hardest choice you are ever called upon to make.” With that odd blessing, Sten turned away, staring out into the darkness and thinking about whatever it was he thought about while the rest of them slept.

Alistair turned back to the shield. There was work to be done.

++

Zevran’s tent held a bedroll, a pack, and a low stool. This made sense, as he had brought only what was absolutely necessary with him from Antiva. The bottle of brandy, still mostly full, had a place of honour beside his pillow, but aside from that, there was little about his sleeping space that was personal.

He sat Kentha on the stool, and bent to kiss her forehead like a benediction. “Wait here a moment,” he said, and disappeared.

He returned with Morrigan’s kettle, hot handle clutched safely in the gloves Kentha had given him, and some clean cloths. Gently, he pulled Kentha to her feet again, and slowly stripped off her armour, gloves, and boots, until she was barefoot and clad only in the linens she wore to stop the drakeskin from chafing.

“And you laughed when I said the leatherworks was a comforting smell,” he said, gently. It would have got a smile from here under other circumstances, and he continued as though it had. “I suppose it is better than the alternative. I have seen skin rubbed raw, and it is no great joy.”

He set her on the stool again, and put one of the cloths into the steaming kettle. He pulled it out, wrung the water out as best he could, and then set it around her neck. The heat of it seeped into her shoulders, relaxing muscles that had been tense for so long she wasn’t even aware of the stress until it was removed. She rolled her head back, and sighed, stopping just before it turned into a sob. Zevran pretended not to notice.

He scrubbed her hands with a second cloth, getting blood and dirt from under her nails, and scraping against her calluses in a manner just shy of true pain. He washed her feet, so much care in his touch that she nearly broke. He started talking, then, about his adventures and his life in Antiva. She suspected his tales were highly edited—they lacked that tawdry flair he’d always seemed so proud of—but just listening to him talk was enough.

With gentleness and an extremely neutral expression, he wet the last cloth and cleaned her face and neck. It was, she thought a bit traitorously, a better method than the one the hound used, though the beast was equally comforting, if in a different sort of way.

Zevran moved behind her, and began to unpin her braids. He got a comb from somewhere she couldn’t see, and brought the kettle over so that he could tend to her hair with what was left of the hot water. She could easily imagine how, in a gilded house in Antiva, this would only be the beginning of something, but she knew that Zevran was in complete control. He wouldn’t let her do anything stupid. It was the only reason she could even think about relaxing in his company.

After he was satisfied that her hair was knot-free and as clean as it was going to get, Zevran redid it in a loose braid. He tied the end off and put it over her shoulder, removing the towel. He paused, and she could feel him thinking, and then he leaned forward and kissed the top of her spine, right where the braid began.

His quiet reverence undid her, and she slumped forward. She was still unwilling to fall, but she let him pull her to her feet.

“Come, my Grey Warden,” he said, and drew her over to the bedroll.

He tucked her into his bed, and sat down beside her. He brushed a hair that had already escaped the loose braid from her face, and she followed the warmth of his hand until it came to rest on the crown of her head. She let sleep take her, then, knowing that he would still be right beside her when she woke.

**Author's Note:**

> FEELINGS, let me tell you. This is where my writing music switched from WotE's Timebomb to the Vulpine cover of Wicked Games, and I think it shows a bit, eh?


End file.
